Just Jordan Peterson, being a crankypants crackpot

And if you thought the above was a lot of crankpottery, here he is, opining for the National Pest:

So it’s 2:39 a.m. in Oslo, Norway. I woke up in a too-hot hotel room out of a fitful nightmare, which I can only partially remember. I haven’t had a dream that I could recall even that clearly in a very long period of time. The last one was about traveling and speaking and not getting enough to eat. That was about six months ago. It occurred just before I embarked on what has now been a nine-month, 85-city world tour. I am on a very restricted diet, eating only beef and water, as a consequence of what appears to be a rather intractable auto-immune disease. I was concerned at some deep unconscious level about what might go wrong if I set out to talk with 250,000 people: If I could not eat, then I could not think and then things would not go well. Hence the nightmare. It was a warning of what might go wrong (and has not).

In this dream I was speaking to a young man. He was very garrulous and irritating; he was unkempt, poorly put together, and he simply would not shut up. Everything he said was designed to provoke and to test. He finally pushed me beyond my limit of tolerance. I grabbed him, physically, and threw him against the wall. It was like wrestling with dough.

In my dream, I wrestled my opponent to the ground. He was still talking, mindlessly, mechanically, rapidly, nonstop. I bent his wrists to force his knuckles into his mouth. His arms bent like rubber and, even though I managed the task, he did not stop babbling. I woke up. 2:39 in Oslo. I’m not in good spirits.

Okay, it may be a bit early in the piece to call this, but…Jordy? That garrulous, irritating, mindless babbler? That was YOU. That was your Shadow (come on, Jordy, you’re supposed to be a Jungian, you’re supposed to know what all this means), and you were wrestling with it. You were wrestling with YOURSELF, Jordy. I mean, you ARE a garrulous, irritating, unkempt, poorly put together, provoking, incessantly babbling, mechanical, mindless, rapid, nonstop rubbery doughy mass of gibbering goo that simply won’t shut the fuck up. And the Shadow is the part of yourself you externalize because you can’t bear to face it. You don’t want to change the parts of yourself that are fucking you up nine ways till Friday. And so there you are, projecting like a motherfucker, and projecting all these god-awful aspects of yourself onto someone else.

And yes, this is the someone else you’re projecting all that onto:

Last night I was interviewed by a young journalist from France. He had flown in with a camerawoman from Paris. He had been trying to have what might have been — but wasn’t — a discussion with me for several months, flying at one point to Rochester, New York to attend one of my lectures, but failing to produce the appropriate paperwork for my tour manager. He wanted to talk to me about the degenerating state of modern masculinity — the alienation felt by what appears to be an increasing number of young men — and what particular attraction what I have been saying on YouTube and on my podcasts and in my book might have for such people. A part of him really wanted to know, and that was how we opened the discussion.

I told him that the dominant narrative in our culture is predicated on the assumption that the West is a tyrannical patriarchy; that all its accomplishments are a consequence of the exploitation of the dispossessed; and that the only true way to a desirable position is through the expression of power. I told him that young men are therefore faced with a Devil’s choice: if they are ambitious and competent (or even not ambitious or competent) then they will be treated, not least by themselves, as if they are expressing precisely the traits that produced this terrible tyranny, and are no better than the infinite oppressors of the past. This happens because it has become acceptable in our time to put forward a version of history, the present and the future that is based on a deep hatred for men (or, even worse, a deep hatred for competence). This is a very enervating, demotivating, discouraging story, as it takes what is best about the best young men — their desire for competence, contribution, cooperation, competition and success — and turns it into something indictable.

See what I mean by a garrulous babbling mass of gibbering goo? Jordy thinks the patriarchy is just an “assumption”, like some 5000 years of human history and prehistory just didn’t happen except maybe in the fever dreams of — oh, about half the world, the half that got born with parts commonly regarded as female. All that misogyny, all that oppression, all that witch-burning, all that foot-binding and clitoridectomy, all that slavery and unindentured servitude, and gaslighting, and femicide, all the bullshit that men have been foisting on women since time out of mind, apparently never happened. It’s just an “assumption” that the “dominant narrative in our culture is predicated on”.

No, Jordy, it’s NOT just some preconceived assumption. THAT SHIT ALL REALLY HAPPENED. IT IS ALL STILL REALLY HAPPENING. AND IT IS HAPPENING OUTSIDE YOUR GODDAMN BUBBLE. I know it’s hard to believe, seeing as you’re a mediocre white man who thinks he must be spectacularly “ambitious and competent” because some even more mediocre white dudes seeking bias confirmation are throwing fistfuls of money at you on Patreon while cry-wanking themselves to sleep, but it’s true. The West (and not ONLY the West, but the majority of the human-occupied world) IS a tyrannical patriarchy. And as much as you may hate to admit this, you are a beneficiary thereof.

Even the worst-off man in the West is still better off than the worst-off woman, because at least no one is persecuting him for the mere fact of being a man. But women? Even the best-off of us is still not as well off as the best-off man, because, well…we’re female. Even the best of us is somehow “lesser” than some crumbum dude, just because she’s a she. We’re assumed (especially by the likes of YOU, Jordy) to be less ambitious, less competent, etc., and so undeserving of what is actually our due, than those poor young men who are currently facing the catastrophic plight of — zut, alors! — EQUALITY WITH TEH FEEEEEMALEZ.

But we’re not there yet; we’re not being treated as the equals we ought to be. And when we rightly complain about that, we get accused (yes, also by YOU, Jordy) of “hating men”. Because in fact we hate being in a subordinate position to mediocre men who think they’re hot shit.

Yes, Jordy, I mean men like YOU. Did you think you were fucking special?

Oh yes, he thinks he’s all that and a bag of Miss Vickie’s jalapeño chips. And he’s trying to mansplain manhood even to other men, like that blessed unnamed young French journo, who are rightly skeptical of his warmed-over nineteenth-century dribblings, and apparently doing yeoman’s work in trying to talk some sense into HIM:

This is the reason for the despair of young men. I explained that to the French journalist, but he could not listen. He had brought a list of pre-prepared questions, “hard questions,” as he considered them, and did not have the confidence in his own desperation and curiosity to pursue the question that was actually guiding him. He considered himself a liberal, meaning someone attracted by the more radical end of the left, and the story I was telling him was simply not comprehensible: not without the demolition of his entire manner of looking at the world. So he did not have the ears to hear, and actually repeated the question three more times. I gave the same answer each time, to no avail.

We did not have a discussion. Instead, he acted out his version of the tough, hard-bitten reporter, the asker of the aforementioned “hard questions,” which were descriptions of episodes gleaned from my adventures and misadventures over the last two years, which he laid at my feet in an attempt to demonstrate to me the moral unacceptability of my ways.

Why had I discussed “enforced monogamy” with a reporter from the New York Times? Why had I tweeted the Facebook page of a Communist activist from Ryerson who had posted flyers accusing me of being a public menace by the dozens in my neighbourhood? Wasn’t all the money I was making from my book and tour merely evidence that I had found a weak spot in desperate young men and exploiting them shamelessly?

We didn’t discuss the reasons why millions of people have read my book, and had their lives changed for the better; we didn’t discuss the strange fact that thousands of people in cities all over the world attend my lectures. We didn’t even discuss the plight of young men — even though he was clearly someone who shared that plight. I don’t think I conducted myself particularly well.

After we had wrapped up, we spoke a bit more off camera. He told me that he truly believed in a world of privilege for white males of a certain class — a class he belonged to. I told him that he therefore bore guilt for which there was no possibility of expiation. I told him that instead of guilt he could decide to take responsibility for his relative good fortune. He could do good with what he had been granted, and multiply the talents, so to speak, that were awarded to him at his birth. I told him that how much money I was making was not the issue (and certainly not something I am ashamed about) but that what I did with the money was the relevant point. I told him that I planned to put my fortune, such as it is, to the best use that I can imagine, personally, for my family, and for the broader community, if I can manage that, and that I could not think of a better adventure than that.

But we caught none of that on tape, and I am not optimistic about the future of the interview, once edited and shaped, as it surely will be.

Yeah, he’s mad. He’s mad because that French journalist, whoever he was, just wasn’t lapping up that lengthy, mansplainy monologue, like all his Patreon suckers. He’s mad because this bright young guy is clearly brighter than he, and can see through his bullshit. He’s mad because he can’t control the narrative like he does in his YouTube dronings. He’s also projecting his own blinkered worldview onto the guy who isn’t wearing the blinkers. And that, no doubt, is why he projected his id onto that poor babbling dude in his fever dream, and can’t decipher what it all REALLY means.

Well, that…and the fact that he’s on a monotonous (and dangerously inadequate) diet there. For some “autoimmune disease” which he chose not to name, probably because he hasn’t been, you know, ACTUALLY DIAGNOSED as having any such disease, by an ACTUAL FUCKING SPECIALIST. If he’s even been to one (which I doubt he has), he probably came out of the battery of tests showing nothing unusual. Except maybe that he’s a raving hypochondriac. But allergists can’t do anything for those; they need psychiatrists. And in the case of Jordy-Peteypie, also a dietitian, one who can tell him to stop being such a big ol’ baby, and just fucking eat some fruits, veggies and grains, already.

Oh hell, the man needs his mother to tell him to clean up his plate. And his room. And to drink some fucking prune juice while he’s at it.

If he only had a poop, maybe he’d stop being one.

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This entry was posted in Canadian Counterpunch, Crapagandarati, Fascism Without Swastikas, Freeze Peach!, Human Rights FAIL, Isn't It Ironic?, Men Who Just Don't Get It, Morticia! You Spoke French!, She Blinded Me With Science, Sick Frickin' Bastards, The "Well, DUH!" Files, The Hardcore Stupid, Uppity Wimmin. Bookmark the permalink.