We Hunted The Mammoth
The (alleged) pickup artist who calls himself “Heartiste” is a lot of things — a misogynist, a homophobe, a racist, a bizarrely overwrought prose stylist, to name just a few of his more charming features. But one thing I never would have pegged him for? A Harry Potter fan.
Will sweet sexy sexbots and “carnally-neutral industrial robots” unite to destroy civilization? Woman-hating “pickup artist” and wannabe white supremacist philosopher-king Heartiste says yes.
Men’s Rights Activists, and anti-feminists generally, are forever warning anyone who will listen that excessive feminism could, any day now, bring about the end of western civilization itself.
If you want a picture of the future, imagine a cat sitting on a human face forever.
That, at least, is the nightmare vision of the future of these United States that emerges from a recent post by pickup-artist-cum-Nazoid-philosopher James “Heartiste” Weidmann.
So over on Chateau Heartiste, the pickup blog now devoted mostly to Nazi-riffic racist rants, they’re talking about ways to fight what blog proprietor James “Heartiste” Weidmann calls the “globalhomo agenda.”
In the midst of all the excitement yesterday, I kind of forgot to do any Valentine’s Day posts. So I’m going to make up for that with a POST-VALENTINE’S DAY 50% OFF SALE ON BELATED VALENTINE’S DAY POSTS.
Were the Women’s Marches last Saturday an inspiring act of resistance to the incoming Trump regime, or just a collection of bitter, aging childless bitches looking for some drama in their lives?
Once upon a time, the pickup artist who calls himself Heartiste (real name James Weidmann) actually provided his readers advice — terrible, backwards, and thoroughly misogynistic advice, but advice nonetheless — on how to pick up the hot babes.
I admit I probably write about pickup-artist-turned-alt-right-opinion-haver Heartiste a bit more often than he merits. But his combination of furious bigotry and purple prose is irresistible.
Consider his brilliant new plan to defeat Hillary Clinton by impugning the masculinity of her male supporters.
If you watched Trump’s appearance at the Al Smith dinner last night, you might be forgiven for concluding that he bombed, big league.
The annual charity dinner is sort of a political version of a celebrity roast, albeit one that is a little less vicious and a lot less funny. The main task of any politician speaking at the event is to demonstrate the rudiments of a sense of humor, especially when it comes to jokes directed at them.