As promised, here is a look at one of several market segments it may be worth chewing through with a mechanized conversion engine. For this first installment let us look at a group which is having a moment in the popular discussion space three years after their guy had his moment in the Republican space, the Elliot identifying self-aware surplus males. Or as they prefer to self identify, incels.
Why market to self admitted losers? Consider the following points of ideological allignment:
- Deep Hatred of the Femstate - Unfortunately this also tends to be accompanied by preferences for different flavors of socialism, but it is a short move from where their discourse is centered to the Republican imperative to disenfranchise bitter old women for they are the root of all evil.
- Not anti-hooker Puritans like their "Manosphere" predecesors - Wheras the bizarre characters making up the backbone of the old manosphere/pill realm focused on ethically sourcing free range pussy in a complete surrender to both the Puritan and Pantsuit objections to sex work.1 There is cognitive dissonance and lack of consensus in the ranks on the subject over whether patronzing hookers
- Their Loserdom is Deeply Internalized - Rock bottom and possibility of surrender and all that. Also, they tend to be sufficiently disillisioned to resist the tempation to view Trump as their secret best friend unlike the folks embracing their manliness in weird Anglo-Puritan ways.
The bulk of them, like the bulk of idiotic humanity is likely too far gone for anything, but that happens even when Mircea fishes for sluts in the place that says its supposed to have sluts. It's possible that one or more angry young men out of the millions is open to doing something about their situation, and unlike the average "dominant identifying" sense of humor guys, their resignation might make them hungry enough to try something.
Group solitications would likely fail for the same reason they have in the past failed to hook promising leads from other populations. Bias towards their known, comfort heirarchy and the ensuing ant defense tactics. In their language, every positive action is derided as a "cope". All of the sex-having apparently goes to some guys named "Chad", the bodybuilder-tattoo uniformed folks doing the Pick-up thing and apparently ruining pink markets around the world.2 The obsess over millimeters of bone they may or may not have ignoring ample examples from history where dozens of hookers kept armies of thousands of men laid while on the march.
The size of this pile is immense to the point Anglin and Weev shifted the editoral spin of their Socialist Stormer in a not entirely unsuccessful attempt to appeal to these surplus males as a group. I am strictly uninterested however in groups or numbers. I am interested in mechanically tossing ropes into their pits of melancholy with the hope some might climb. Other might hang, but that is already incredibly common in their community. The #trilema channel is pointedly not the place to be receiving the climbers, thusly #pizarro and the other aspiring castles are going to need irc bot attention.
The sad state of the world is that it seems the place to start churning through in search of live intelligences is also the place most sad.
- The primary Puritan objection is that sex work is sex, while the primary Pantsuit objection is that sex work is work. [↩]
- The mechanism for this which I suspect from Mircea's observations of his travels is they go around doing their "nomad" thing and their "pick-up" thing. The result is girls who'd normally be selling mis-perceive the arrival of their chance, and get burned. Eventually the cycle breaks with the guys talking about how "Eastern Europe is ruined" before going to Jesus while the girls are abandoned to pastoral bovinity. [↩]
Here's a little bonus story, speaking of
So the girls were in trouble for I don't recall what, first one then the other got the walking stick to the ass and then sent to the laundry room. Basically some bumblingness getting in my way while I was doing things. When I got back, I went and got the paddle and started looking for them.
There we have me, not furious but sufficiently indignant to appear pretty well incensed to the general public, walking down the hotel hallway, thick rubber paddle in hand. I go past this 50-something, well tanned and working out... beautician, let's say, and she just stops and gapes at me, mouth half open, complete submission. As I look at her I realise... I don't even know where the fuck this laundry room even is!
But I notice the maid's cart, next to an open door, so I go in to ask there. This brunette, middle aged, well rounded local mother pins herself against the wall opposite the doorway. She had come to see who's there and she had seen, unmitigated terror in her eyes. I'm not even swinging that thing around or anything, but what am I going to do now, surrepetitiously hide it behind my back ? That ain't gonna put anyone at ease. I ask her though, looking her straight in the dilated pupils, "do you know where the laundry room is ?" she doesn't know what the fuck I'm saying, she keeps cooing desperately, apologetically. She doesn't know, she's sorry, in Polish, she's sorry, she's...
So I take the elevator down to the reception, where work a half dozen young girls fresh out of school, all pretty and dressed up and tryna be business like. They fix their eyes upon the paddle, and do not look away for the whole of my walk over to the desk, and the whole of the ensuing conversation, and (I have little doubt) the whole of my walk back to the elevator area. The laundry room is on the 6th and 7th floor, right from elevator and all the way down, though the better equipment is on 7th floor. Their eyes silently confess their readiness to anything else I want, but as it happens... I do not want anything else. I miss my own whores, wtf is this. This French woman bumps into the dork in tow such that he nearly falls in the reception area decorative pool, to get out of my way, then keeps silent as he keeps whining at her. "Alons-y, Michel" eventually.
Alons-y indeed, minutes later I bust open the door to the 7th floor laundry room. A damp, unpleasant smell of incorrectly done laundry permeates the place. The door bumps into something, and as I look down noticing the half inch of water, I perceive the doorstop, too : this 30something, pudgy & moronic-faced average guy with a great sense of humour. He is petrified, takes this pose of a scared hog begging for mercy. As fucking if Ima dirty my new paddle on his incel scum ilk.
I find my girls on the other floor, we have a pleasant conversation and get back to the room ; and latter to apple pie. I was only carrying that thing around as a prop, with no intention of hurting anyone -- but then again how's anyone to know ? Sure as fuck no Chad involved in the proceedings did ; and if none were hurt in the making of my pleasant half hour, it's only because indolence on my part.
But getting back to the topic : my kneejerk is to say "incels" is a retarded time sink ; yet... who knows ? Maybe you're right.
My gut says a large portion of the mass adopting the label is retarded and likely to sink time sorting the hooked, but as I disgorge other market segment overviews the pathological resistances to be encountered appears to only go up. The self recognizing incel crowd is largely in that crowd for good reasons, but there might be some dole'd up NEETs hungry for more out of life.
The kneejerk happens for a reason.
Nothing wrong with trying to figure out the group characteristics I suppose though on one hand it does tend to have this saddening effect and on the other hand I'm not all that convinced that their self-chosen labels are of any import really. Perhaps focusing on what life in the sun really is might prove both saner for you and at the end of the day more convincing than anything for those who *are* looking or even able to look for a way out of whatever mess they got themselves into.
@Mircea Popescu Bwahahaha, "Paddle-armed terrorist storms hotel in search for the... laundry room." Can't quite blame them for not quite believing either their eyes (really, is that a paddle only??) or their ears (laundry room??).
I ain't terrorizin nobodee!
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