Do Vegans Lie to Themselves?

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A piece written in response to vegan Facebook personalities who disseminate false information in order to fortify the views of the converted and turn the hearts of the carnivorous. Whether pernicious or ignorant, these people do a disservice to a creed which claims to stand on the moral high-ground.  In this post I hoped to reestablish the meaningfulness and the efficacy of the truth, and to exhort vegans to take up this sword, not to cut corners, but to cleave undesirables from their rhetoric and behaviour. Continue reading

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Forbidden Truth

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In the spirit of the great revelator and whistleblower of evil and lies, Francis E. Dec., and of Time Cube creator and heresiarch Gene Ray, comes another historic addition to the annals of cult-culture and internet kookdom, the pseudonymous and prolific internet (ab)user Forbidden Truth, who, on the backs of his heroes, Charles Manson and Hannibal Lecter–from whom he quotes copiously on his Twitter account–seeks eagerly to alert mankind to its indomitable entrapment in evil, artifice and lie, with the aid of his extensive, apodictic, inerrant, truth-yielding essays on the true, fallen, yet potentially redeemable state of mankind and who, from his darkened basement hovel located somewhere in the white southern states of America, hopefully awaits the extraterrestrial descension and its god-myth-like altruistic investment of man with technological immortality. Read now, “for your only hope for a future!”

I Would Rather Die than Go to Heaven

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People often say they want to live a long time in order to know everything about the universe they can. But knowledge is ultimately less important than pleasure. Knowing is a pleasure, and without pleasure, you wouldn’t want to know. People who say they’d rather be a sad Socrates than a happy pig derive pleasure from being one and not the other, enough to outweigh or justify whatever sadness they feel. But the thing about pleasure is that when it’s really good it’s all-absorbing. You know of nothing else. And when you come down from that kind of blissful high, *only* then do you–can you–think to yourself, “I want to go back for more.” When you’re deep inside the pleasure dome you couldn’t care less if you were alive or dead, because you would not be able to even entertain the thought. Living forever requires that we never achieve, or at least never remain in, that perfect, blissful state. But if, when you’re inside that state, you die, it would be as though you were eternal . . .

In Defense of Anti-Natalism

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Anti-natalism is the belief that humans should not breed. It is believed that humans should not breed because human lives contain suffering, which is bad, and bringing a life into existence will be to subject it to suffering—ergo, breeding is bad. The folks over at The Right Stuff have written a diatribe against this belief and in doing so have made some errors and false statements. These errors need correcting. Continue reading

Say Goodnight

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I have succummbed once again to the devilish midnight succubus of procrastination. My wobbly stabilizing peg-leg pseudopharmacopoeia of glucose and caffeine have become brittle under the weight of fatigue and I reckon my eyelids could slam down with greater force right now than a right hook of Ali in his prime. My sole consolation in this time of deep regret is that I can call “procrastination” by its true, magical, scientific first name! You’re the Planning Fallacy, you sneaky, underhanded, black-eye waste of time! I’ve got the jump on you now, you surreptitious drain of effervescence! “Planning fallacy!” *snicker* “Planning fallacy!” *guffaw* I point my determined and not-droopy middle finger at you and laugh. I huff air and guffaw like a stoner taking a hit. I point my finger at you because you’re at a distance. You’re far away and receding ever farther like a vehicle from a hit-and-run victim and your named and depersonalized form rolls bloodily behind me on the road of my history, a tattered rag, torn and pulled to pieces by this triumphalist victor, whose fisted hand, weighted down by a tiredness of countless sleepless ages, bears downwards and strikes and rends into pieces innumerable your partite and dessicated corpse. You’ve no more power over me, Planning Fantasy, you wax-eyed piece of clay! You did not plan for this!