The Scrotecratic Dialogues III

The Scrotecratic Dialogues III: The Circle of Learned Men

I: Feminist Freakquency

My friend, your ignorance on this issue is understandable but tragic nonetheless.  When most people hear the word "feminism," they naively think that the word means what it once did -- equality, fairness, social progress, a benevolent antidote to the entrenched oppression of yesteryear.  But let me assure you, these are not the goals that modern 21st-century feminists pursue.  You don't know this because their ideas have not yet entered the realm of mainstream political thought, but I assure you they are gaining acceptance among influential figures at a rapid pace.  (As we've seen with Objectivism, our oligarchal class can totally embrace an ideology as the common people remain entirely oblivious to it.)  Modern feminism is doing exactly that; gradually building up adherents among the powerful, ensuring that it will reshape society in unfathomable ways in the decades to come.  Look, I've studied this extensively.  If you ever have the time I recommend that you read for yourself the sacred texts of feminism; not just the foundational works of Steinem, Friedan, Paglia, and Brownmiller, but also the newer and significantly more radical works of Andrea Dworkin, Deborah Hargrove, and Maxine Frinch.  Only then will you be able to glimpse the world they want to build...

...imagine, a world stripped of the so-called patriarchy and all concepts of heteronormativity.  A world of egalitarian equality, you might presume?  Such rigid homeostasis is impossible; nature abhors a void and in the absence of male hegemony, female hegemony will necessarily fill it.  This is a world where God is thought of as female, a world where the vast majority of political, economic, and social power is held by women.  Implausible, you say?  Hardly.  You only have to look at the current dominance of women in the office and in universities and the emasculation of the male in pop culture to see the emergent trend.  As women gain true financial and sexual equity, they begin to favor their female offspring over their male ones; increased personal control over reproduction is leading to a scenario whereby girls outnumber boys by significant margins.  Socially, normal male behaviors will be even more pathologized than they are now, until the male essence becomes utterly secondary, peripheral to the central cultural conversation, just as the female essence once was.

Again, I ask you to imagine this world and imagine the life of an average male who lives in it.  He wakes up and has no job to occupy his hours; technological advancement has rendered him needless.  Women maintain the automated economy, they outnumber men ten-to-one, and regard us as little more than pets and breeding partners.  The man has little else to do but work out to enhance his attractiveness and please his female masters, who share their males slaves amongst them.  That is what we shall be -- slaves, passed among women like mindless studs, with little purpose apart from endlessly performing the sexual act to satisfy the dominant females and provide genetic diversity for the population, and also watching, helplessly, as these dominant females engage in all manner of gleeful intercourse with one another.

Now that you know this, you can see why we must join with the radical feminists and help them to achieve this glorious future.  Oh, yes.  We must join them.  

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II: The Issue of Allocation

You know what really pisses me off?  Grocery stores.  The very concept of them.  

Every time I go inside one, which is rare, I think to myself... really?  This is your primary mode of disbursing your food resources, civilization?  To pile them up haphazardly in a vast room, in piles and aisles, stacked on shelves and such, where they await the steady flow of needy citizens who mill about and paw at them, claiming those which they fancy and those they have enough currency to obtain?  And these goods, these goods you disburse, many are not even healthy.  The companies that produce them alter them by adding fillers, sweeteners, puffing them up with air and diluting them with water, in an elaborate ruse to wheedle as much currency from the starving drones as they are able to.  Pepsi.  Corn Pops.  Cool Ranch Doritos.  Microwaveable rice with sodium paste.  Dessicated fish holes and chicken brain purees, shaved cow horn, jellied yak testicles, Choco-Tacos, vanilla lard pie, Neptune salad, and frosted doughnuts containing sawdust and roach parts... all of it is vile to me.

I partake of none of it save cantaloupe, broccoli stalks, and certain types of apples.  This is the diet of the wise.

Also, I sometimes steal the occasional grape, white seedless usually, if I feel my central crystal core beginning to drain.  Oh yes.

Stores.  Bah.  I can think of so many other ways to distribute critical resources, I can think of at least half a dozen superior ways... but they might involve more pulleys and pneumatic tubes than you have the stomach for, society.

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III: Taste of this Swag

Whenever I see the President meeting with other world leaders, I always think... you know, we need to establish a new sort of official wardrobe for his office.  I'm tired of seeing these foreign tinpot dictators strut about in their finery while our man looks like just another regular bum in a gray suit.  It's not right, damnit.  What do I propose?  Well, his suit should be a bit more regal -- perhaps something jet-black, double-breasted, tailored from the finest Italian cotton, accentuated with epaulets and a sash.  Maybe even go so far as a cape on certain occasions.

Now, obviously he needs something regal on his head.  A phallic hat?  Clearly not.  A crown?  Not so much a crown, but an elegant coronet, something light and streamlined, made of platinum or silver, adorned with sweeping eagle-wing ornaments.  I would use the iconic crown of Gondor as a starting point and then modernize it.

Speaking of which, let's talk scepters.  The scepter has long been an antiquated thing, purely ceremonial... but my research suggests that they once served a real function, that of providing a monarch with a convenient striking implement to chastise recalcitrant subjects.  That purpose is outdated, but I believe a scepter can still be very useful -- why yes, you've already guessed it -- create a modern scepter that is in reality an electronics device, containing a cel phone, GPS locator, calendar, all of that.  The finial of the scepter would pop open to reveal a small screen that has... well, anything that the new Apple Watch has, and perhaps even more.  The Apple Corporation would be the best choice to design this thing, would you not say?  I'm sure they'd enjoy the prestige of creating a singular gadget that would be used by one person only, under pain of death.  

I have other ideas, but you get the gist.  The important thing is that we get this in motion as soon as possible, because I want my man Obeezie to have a little taste of this swag before the next honkyass buttfuck clown takes over.  Scott Walker must never taste the swag.

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IV: The Holy Ones

Okay, let me tell you something.  Years ago, when I was working for the Company, I spent a few years in Nepal and Bhutan.  During that time I had to visit that famous Mundungu Temple which the Taoists consider the holiest place on earth.  Gandhi made a pilgrimage there, I believe, and it's a sort of mecca for hippie college kids the world over because it's beyond the reach of the typical lazy Western tourist.  But the ones who make it there tend to rave about it.  They say the Monks of Mundungu are the wisest and holiest people on earth, that they feel some sort of sense of infinite peace radiating from the place, and that when they return to America they are overcome by its selfishness and materialism and yearn to return to the Temple...

...well, let me tell you what I found when I went there.  A drab stone building in the steaming jungle, two miles from the shittiest third-world slum village you could imagine.  Inside, the Monks spend their entire lives doing essentially nothing, just lazing about and "meditating" in their own filth, supported by the scraps of their society.  As I entered the dim and moldy inner sanctum the stench of dried feces was overwhelming.  The monk who was my guide had likely never bathed in his life, and I recoiled from the fleas and other parasites that I could see feasting on his blistered, oily skin.  I was forced by custom to sit with these pestilent mystics in a circle as they moaned and muttered their gibberish, and afterwards, I was again sickened as they scooped some curdled milk from a clay vat and began to slurp it greedily.  I witnessed rats and cockroaches climbing in and out of the vat at their leisure, grown fat on the spoiled sludge.  I located the head monk (no matter how many times I heard his name, it just sounded like "Nankoo Radoldo" to me)  and when I asked why they did not take more care to prevent the vermin from contaminating their food, he immediately squealed and stomped his feet in a little angry-dance and glared at me as if I had proposed something unspeakable.  "As part of the Way of Mundungu, we do NOT interfere with any creature living, in any way" he croaked, "for such is the path to worldliness and evil, oh yes!" As he spoke, I saw his brown, rotting teeth moving about loosely in his blackened gums, and from beneath each tooth a yellowish pus, like congealed mayonnaise, leaked in a disgusting fashion.  In fact, his entire jaw seemed to lurch about in his head.  The infection was so severe that his cartilage had totally degraded, leaving his mandibular bones floating free in his dissolving skull.  At one point his remaining teeth clacked together and the impact launched a dollop of pus into the air, and it arced towards my left eyeball.  I was able to swat it out of the air with my quick reflexes.  But there was little I could do about the stench of the place.  I left as soon as I was allowed, and watched with relief from the back of the Jeep as the hellish place was slowly swallowed by the greenery.

....so if you're really planning to vote for a Democrat, you should know that this is the world they want for all of us.

For all of us.

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V: Point of Critique

Why yes, I did read it.  Do you want my honest opinion?  It needs work.  You're very much on the right track, you have a lot of clever dialogue and some very magnificent scenes, but... they're all in service of a typical Hero's Journey plot, which we've all grown tired of, I think.  It's boilerplate Joseph Campbell and it reduces all your inventive details into something flat and banal.  Do you want my advice?  Let me email you a few articles once I get back to my office.  There are other basic forms for a narrative of this sort that I feel you could use to create something truly beautiful.  For example, I'm particularly fond of the Revanche Outline, which you've no doubt seen in recent masterpieces like Dillashaw and The Little Rohingya, and also in some unimpeachable genre work like Elmo Gnaewick.  Revanche's essential theory is that the structure of a story is satisfying when it mirrors our subconscious development from birth to death.... its breaks the narrative into five interlocking "prime struggles" that offer the writer a perfect stage for his drama.  The first prime struggle is against a sibling figure, either an older oppressor or younger usurper; the second struggle is against the parental figure, which starts as benevolent but then turns authoritative once the sibling has been overcome; the protagonist then matures and faces the sexual opponent, a contrapositive figure that stands in contrast to their inherited values, whom they must either conquer, reconcile with, or incorporate into themselves.  The fourth prime struggle is against the Universe/Society, in which the protagonist finds their previous victories turned against them, their wishes denied by the ironic nature of reality itself.  This leads into the fifth struggle, the struggle against the Self, which can be the betrayal of the body by old age, the onset of insanity, or simply the reveal of one's true motives to oneself.  After these five struggles, the protagonist must be put to rest, having their life fully defined in a realistically heroic, non-cliched manner.  Given to episodic results?  Hardly.  The flexibility of this paradigm allows each artist to interweave the five prime struggles in an overlapping and nonlinear fashion, usually giving special emphasis to no more than two of them.  Three, at most.

Think it over carefully, because I believe utilizing this tool would help you forge a far, far better spine for your story than the one it has now.  And yes, I know that we're talking about a gritty reboot of Gomer Pyle here, and that the standards of the studio are not necessarily the same as ours; but as my student, I expect you to provide them with nothing but the utmost quality.  Else what are we doing this for?

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VI: More than meets the Eye

Hey, dude.  You're my best friend, so I've decided that i want to tell you this... before I tell my brother, or anyone else in my family.

Okay, deep breath.  

I'm coming out as trans.

Yes, that's right.  I've lived my entire existence as a Transformer trapped in a man's body.  Realizing this and accepting it has been a lifelong journey for me.  It began, as you might expect, around 1986 when the animated Transformers movie was in theaters.  I saw it, like most boys our age.  But unlike most, I saw the robots battling there onscreen and I knew, I knew that's what I was on the inside.  The true me is a twenty-five foot tall, 75-ton metallic colossus, capable of turning into a vehicle, that must ingest Energon to function.  I feel a powerful sense of dysmorphia every time I get in my car to go to work; I should not be in a car, my mind screams, I should BE a car -- or a jet, preferably, since I really do identify more with the Decepticon side of things.  I might have a human body, but that is not me.  It's taken society a long time to come to terms with this reality, but we're finally at that point.

I know this must be confusing for you.  You've heard me badmouth and rail against the new Michael Bay films, right?  Many times.  I said horrible things.  The truth... the truth is that my seeming hatred of these films was a jealous reaction on my part.  I saw the mighty Transformers portrayed more realistically than ever, and I felt helpless and bitter that I was not one of them.  I was lashing out, some last resentful, jealous part of me that was still adjusting to the truth.  Needless to say, after mocking them, I bought them all, watched them many times, often while masturbating to excess.

Sadly, medical science is not yet at the point where it can help me transition as it does with those suffering from gender issues.  But I've reached out to many others in the trans-former community, and we keep each other abreast of the latest cybernetics research.  And we pray that someday, there will be a way, a way for us to become whole.

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VII: The Perfection

Ah, I remember well the day it began.  The lot of us were holding forth at the estate of Lord Cockram, we were sampling some spirits from his inexhaustible cellar and enjoying the chill of the approaching autumn and the twilight view of his gardens.  There were the usual six of us that night -- myself, Lord Cockram, Old Sir Golm, the clever Dr. Prunnett, William Charles, Esq., and the infamous young Ludimere Bryerhoff, the most recent addition to our informal salon.  We spoke of course of the affairs of the day, mostly concerning the inanity of Parliament and the prospects of the upcoming financial season.  But then as often happens when the liquor begins to kick, the talk turned to the fairer sex.  I noted once again the peculiar nature of our mixed company -- three of us were still young stallions always on the fox-hunt as it were, while the other three were hoary old elders, long married, and decades removed from the sport of wetting one's todger in whatever passed by.  It was a strange fellowship, true, but beneficial to all concerned.

And so we spoke, comparing the virtues and vices of the ladies we knew, as gentlemen do when none are around.  Our talk grew more and more frivolous, whereupon a fascinating concept began to emerge, prodded on mostly by young Ludimere Bryerhoff.

"...exactly, it is indeed a cruel bargain we face," I heard him say to Old Golm, "to have to choose between the two."

"What do you mean?" the elder inquired.

"Well, let's just look around at the choices.  Take, as a pure hypothetical, the natures of the women in our immediate environs.  We have Althaea, our gracious host's own daughter, and her maid, Tansy, who is descended from gypsys, Spaniards, and the like."

Here Lord Cockram furrowed his brow at the mention of his singular feminine issue, as one presumably would.

"...Althea, of course, is the very model of a well-bred English female.  Educated, demure, pious, well-versed in the womanly arts, and unfailingly attendant to the needs of men.  A fine wife for any man she would be.  But -- and be honest -- which one would you rather fornicate with?  Pale, polite, and scrawny Althaea, or the wild-eyed, voluptuous Tansy, vixen that she is?"

"Watch yourself, lad..." Cockram muttered through gritted teeth.

"Now, now, remember the Rule," Dr. Prunnett chuckled, (referring to our personal tradition that no topic was ever to be considered off-limits, and that none should take personal offense at any idea aired in the spirit of honest inquisition and debate.)

"...quite, and I beg the Lord's forgiveness.  But can you not accede my point?  When it comes to pure animal lust, the shapely maid is more desirable, despite the fact that she is brash, unlettered, and impudent?  Or perhaps because she is so?"

The circle of men slowly nodded in assent.

Bryerhoff continued, "So what a devil of a choice it is, when marrying!  So often, females fall into one category or the other; the virtuous and dull vs. the wanton and thrilling.  Most men choose to marry the former and rut in secret with the latter, it would seem?"

Some guilty looks in the circle at this, save for Dr. Prunnett, whom we all knew to be unfailingly pure and honest in all his affairs.

"The cause of this, of course, can be found in the emerging science of genetics.  You lot really should take the advice of the doctor and myself, and obtain copies of the new works by Mendel and Darwin.  Their research into the physical aspects of inherited traits is revolutionary, and will shape the entire world from here on out."

"Darwin, you say?  I've overheard the gist of his work, and its the common consensus in the University that he seeks, through this radical theories, to dethrone the Almighty Himself, and reduce man to little more than a clever ape only slightly removed by happenstance from the primeval muck..."

"...and I say to you, my dear man!  That may be.  But I claim that such metaphysical ramifications are quite besides the point; if these 'genes' exist, then the religious must incorporate them into their traditional model of the Universe regardless of the Deity; to ignore their reality is against all we hold dear."

"Hear, hear."

"I for one believe in their science unabashedly.  We see this phenomenon in dogs and horses, do we not?  The breeder has been utilizing the science of genes all the while, intuitively, unaware of the precise mechanisms of it, because it is undeniably real."

"Yes, but to compare men to the lower beasts..."

"...is entirely rational.  Men and beasts, whether we like it or not, are made of the same matter, the same organic systems, acting in purely rational and observable ways.  The spirit is another matter; the flesh that it finds itself clothed in, that is what our new knowledge pertains to.  Do any of you doubt it?  Why, if Cockram's pallid little Althaea were to, say, breed with a large Negro man..."

Here Lord Cockram sputtered, reddened, and bit back his words while glaring at Bryerhoff with undisguised animus.

"...then the offspring of such a coupling would be a child with tannish skin, with half of the Negro's vigor and half of the Englishwoman's intellect and mannerisms.  We understand reality enough to accept that this is so."

"Truth be told, those of such heritage are, despite their outcast status, are some of the hardiest and most balanced members of humanity, in my opinion.  Even in canines, such crossbreeds have a vitality that surpasses that of the purebred -- hybrid vigour, we call it."

"Mongrel vigour, you mean..." Cockram muttered under his breath.

"Indeed, good Prunnett, this is my case exactly!  Now, follow me here, if you were to take..." the young Bryerhoff spoke excitedly, before being interrupted by one of Old Golm's long-winded digressions.  (Which is unnecessary to the main thesis of this writing, and yet I feel it must be included for the sake of completion.)

"Ahhh yes, my boy, but you are, I think, placing too much emphasis on nature and neglecting the importance of nurture!  The souls of humanity are greatly malleable, in my experience.  Upbringing, upbringing, that can be paramount.  Let me tell you this; in all my years at Greywater, the Stewards would occasionally turn out the pockets of the surrounding countryside and cull the wilder folk who lurked hither and yon, the majority of which were pressed into our service.  Many were obstinate, ornery, and resistant to improvement.  Of all the Stewards I knew, there was one, the excellent Mssr. Erasmus Pogue, who affected great change upon the heathens.  He was a rare man, possessing raw strength and bodily vigor, but also a judicious and serene mind.  Pogue knew the correct balance between the lash and the chapel, the push and the pull between authority and camaraderie, that provided both structure and succor to the untrained mind. Miracles, he worked.  Miracles.  Why, I remember one young rat-faced Native cutpurse whom we named Bertram, found by Oscar hiding in the trunk of a stately oak, the sort of feral youth that any other man would abandon to his inherent vileness; but the stern tutelage of Erasmus Pogue improved him beyond my expectations.  By the end of his life, this Bertram was an elder butler, indistinguishable from any other civilized man, serving the guests of Greywater with impeccable grace and kindness.  Each Christmas, he would meet us at the door of the manor with glasses of brandy and tobacco, and we would..."

(On second thought, I have decided to slightly curtail Old Golm's reminiscences, as my inkwell is threatening to run dry.  Suffice to say it ran on for several paragraphs more.)

"As I was saying," Bryerhoff began again, trying to get the conversation back on track, "such matters will be presupposed, when it is finally attempted."

"Attempted did you say?"

"Surely," Bryerhoff spoke, and he leaned back, swirled his drink about, and his words became lower and dreamier with a hint of boyish mischief about them.

"...surely, it will be done.  I'd be surprised if no one was doing it already -- the breeding of females to perfect them as a species, as a kind.  To take the best qualities and enhance them.  To combine the untamed physical traits that roil our blood and combine them with just enough civilized stock to create... perfection."

"Perfection?"

"Yes... imagine, my friends, a genus of women crafted to fulfill every womanly function.  Robust of body and full of health, with childbearing hips and bounteous bosom.  Demure, but not too demure, still with some of that primitive fire.  Intelligent enough to not wallow in folly and gossip -- but not too intelligent, of course.  We all have encountered one or two such women in our time, some fortunate product of natural accident... but what if you could increase their number through careful and judicious selection?  So that men the world over would no longer be subject to the cruel inequalities of chance?  Why should we not perfect the female, as we have perfected all else to our manly wills?"

"THAT MAID, TANSY?  I'VE FUCKED HER THREE TIMES.  ALMOST FOUR.  TITS LIKE MELONS AND WET AS A SPRING MORNING, I TELL YOU!" Old Cockram bellowed out, apropos of nothing.

Here, I confess, I fell into a bit of a stupor, and when I reemerged, it seems the conversation had developed further, with Bryerhoff and William Charles having taken their fantasy from the theoretical to the practical, and making what seemed to be some rather concrete plans.

"The peak breeding age, it seems to me, would be around fifteen years..."

"...meaning just over six generations per century..."

"...which if Mendel is correct..."

It went on from there.  I fell back into my alcoholic swoon at some point, and when I awakened the next morning, my head pounding, I struggled to transcribe all I could recollect.

And that is how it began.  A clandestine program involving the secluded and extensive property of Lord Cockram, and the invested wealth of many of England's wealthiest men.  It continued on, splendidly, until its existence was discovered by Scotland Yard in the year 2018.  I had died nearly a century before, having never received a Perfected Female of my own, despite Dr. Prunnett's assurances.  Scandal?  Yes, a terrible scandal ensued that brought much shame and consternation to the Crown. The name of Ludimere Bryerhoff, as well as those of his sons Ignatius and Osman, became particularly infamous for the great number of savage murders they committed over the course of their work.  But you should keep in mind when judging these ambitious men, that if it were not for the Bryerhoff Program, many notable female celebrities that you may be fond of -- Salma Hayek, Emily Blunt, and Cindy Crawford, to name a few -- would have never existed at all.  Remember that, always.

Sir Elliott Turningham, formerly of Cornwall.